Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

“You’re all right.” His voice, when it came out, sounded like a boy in the throes of adolescence. It cracked, betraying his fear, betraying his caring.

“I’m all right,” she said.

“I was out looking for you.”

“I was here.”

“Bonnard didn’t come home last night?”

He couldn’t miss the faint tremor of fright that danced across her pale face. “No. Why would you think so?”

Now that his immediate hormonal rush was under control he continued on up the stairs, slowly, so as not to panic her into instant flight. He answered her question with his own. “What floor do you live on?”

“I thought I told you. The second floor.”

“What do you consider the second floor? How many flights of stairs do you take?”

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sp; “I take the elevator.” The small attempt at a joke came out rather forlorn, and she accompanied it with a self-deprecating smile.

He’d reached her side by then, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms. “If the elevator was broken?”

“One flight of stairs. I’m lazy.”

“You’re on the first floor, then,” he said wearily, his worst fears confirmed. “In Europe the first floor is the ground floor, the second the first, etc. I don’t suppose there’s another apartment on that floor?”

“No, there isn’t,” she said. “Do I want to know why you’re asking me these things?”

“Probably not. Someone was upstairs watching us yesterday afternoon.”

She flinched. “You mean, when you kissed me?”

“Yes.” He waited, half hoping she’d dissolve in tears again as she had yesterday, hoping he’d have an excuse to touch her. She didn’t and while he regretted the lost opportunity he felt his longing and admiration increase.

She stood up, slowly, straightening her shoulders as if preparing to face an invisible enemy. “It must have been Marc.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t think he is gone. I think he’s been hiding, somewhere, sneaking into the apartment and watching me. How’s that for paranoia?” Her voice was cool, brittle.

“I’d say you might have reason to be paranoid.”

“I might indeed.”

“Come inside,” he said. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, or we’ll open a bottle of wine and we’ll figure out what you’re going to do.”

She shook her head, the damp, red gold hair swirling, and he could smell that wonderful, elusive scent again. “Could we go to a café, please?”

“Out into the rain again? My apartment’s drier and quieter, and we’re here already.”

“No,” she said.

“Why not?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it, admit it.

“Because if we go in there we’ll end up in bed. And I’m not ready to do that.” She looked up into his eyes, her gaze fearless and unflinching. “I can’t keep hopping from bed to bed, looking for someone to take care of my problems. I got myself into this mess and I need to get myself out of it.”

“Before you get yourself into another one with me.” He finished it for her, his light tone took the sting out of the words. “I bow to your superior wisdom. There’s a café close by—we should only get slightly drowned. And once we get there you can tell me what you’ve decided to do, and how you’re going to let me help you.”